Make It Shallow
by the Harechan
Summary: Sometimes there's a weight, as if a demon is perched there.


Oooo, scary. I'm dipping my toes into the waters of DC fanfiction. The following is the only DC fanfic I have ever written and actually, the first anything that I've written in a while. So please be gentle with me. XD Reviews and critique and comments in general are very much appreciated.

**Make it Shallow**

**Character(s)**: Dick Grayson/(female, non-specific) **Disclaimer**: Nightwing and all character names, distinctive likenesses, and themes contained herein are the exclusive property of DC Entertainment Inc., Warner Bros. Entertainment, and Time Warner. I own nothing and am making absolutely no money off of this.

* * *

She wakes sometimes, in the middle of the night when the apartment is silent and the city's noise has faded to a soft, distant rumble outside the window, feeling like a weight has been placed on her chest. Breathing raggedly -with difficulty, a cold sweat breaking out on her- the fragments of dreams twist out of her mind's grasp like some skilled escape artist, fading into the dark gloom of her bedroom. Sometimes they stay in that realm of abstract, nothing but faded shadows that she can't ever recall clearly. Sometimes the escape artist fails to release his bonds and they linger. Either way, they always leave behind a horrible sense of dread.

If they do remain with her -struggling to fade from their full Technicolor glory- she's free to replay them as she stares at the glowing white ceiling of the room, gasping softly and grasping at the covers. The dream is always the same, the acrobat laying still -so very still, so very _wrong_- his laugh no longer echoing between the buildings, just a dark shadow on the ground, crimson stains trickling away from it, his smile twisted into something like terror.

Sometimes she's able to squeeze her eyes shut and roll over, pushing away the weight and curling herself against his warm -breathing, moving, _living_- body, and that warmth chases away the demon that was perching on her chest, banishing it for another night. Then she can release the tension and the dread melts away and she can breath, laying in the dark with him, listening to his evenness of his breath and the rhythm of his heart as she rests her head on his chest. He usually stirs and simply wraps an arm -securely, comforting- around her, adjusting his body to accommodate her intrusion. He looks at her with curious, sleep-filled eyes, but never asks why she does it in the morning. She's happy for that.

Sometimes she squeezes her eyes shut and rolls over, finding empty air and cool sheets. She has to keep moving then, out of the bed they usually share, clawing out of the vacant sheets and blankets until she's free of them and thumps onto the floor. Then the demon remains, claws digging into her shoulder, weighing her down, and into her chest, making her heart pound erratically. She has to scramble to her office, booting up her computer, tugging on her head set, listening as his cheerful voice floats down the line as he talks to his brother, the voice tiny, but alive -running, jumping, _flying_- at the other end of the electronics. She usually stays there, head resting on her folded arms as she listens with her eyes closed, seeing the smile on his face that she can hear in his words. He finds her there when he comes home, but never asks her why as they go back into the bedroom. She's happy for that, too.

She doesn't want to discuss what kind of stone to reserve.

* * *

Inspired by the 50scenes comm over on LiveJournal (specifically, Table 2, prompt 002. _Grave_). The prompts are, in fact, being used "unofficially" as I have not joined the comm nor made any claim, but sometimes a single word is all I need to write a scene. I suppose the "female, nonspecific" character could be Babs... if you'd like. I don't think I wrote it with her in mind though, to be honest. This was more of an exercise in "How a girlfriend of a superhero would feel, if she knows what he does" kind of a thing and Dick Grayson (not 12-years-old) just ended up being the guy my mind went to as I was writing.


End file.
